The Birthday Girl
by MuteBanana
Summary: It's Molly's birthday, she has to work and everybody has forgotten her... again. - Written for Nocturnias' birthday!


**Note:** Happy Birthday Nocturnias! Here is a little present just for you. Enjoy!

* * *

It was a day like every other at St. Bart's hospital in London. Molly Hooper, pathologist, was sat in the brightly lit basement of it and stared into a microscope, trying to find bacteria that would proof that Catherine Summers had been to the Lake District right before her rather violent death. And so far the search was unsuccessful, which made her growl in disappointment.

Generally, Molly wasn't having the best of days. She wasn't too stressed, though, and her day followed her normal routine. But that _exactly_ was the problem. It was the 18th of July, her _fucking_ birthday. Nobody – not a single person – had bothered to wish her a happy birthday yet. They had forgotten her. Being forgotten was something Molly was fairly used to, but she had entertained the idea that, maybe on her birthday, people would make her feel a teeny tiny bit special. Was that too much to ask? She didn't even want presents, she just wanted someone to acknowledge her ongoing existence and congratulate her on it.

Molly cursed and grabbed the slide from under her microscope to put it away again with the other evidence. As it was only two in the afternoon there was so much more of this day to endure until she could go home, pour herself a glass of wine, crawl under a blanket and cuddle with Toby.

Just when she had finished with the evidence of the Summers case and wanted to start her only autopsy of the day, she caught a glimpse of a well-known dark head of hair through the glass in the door. Molly sighed, lowering the scalpel in her right hand. She loved having Sherlock around at any time, but still there was always a part of her feeling bitter and she feared that part would take over if he were mean to her _today_. His treatment of her had improved since she had helped him fake his death. He had spent three weeks in her flat before going away. Nine months later she had found him sitting on her sofa, bleeding from several severe cuts all over his body and with two broken ribs. But the damage wasn't limited to these injuries. When he had come back to the living (a hell of a lot of people having congratulated _him_ on his ongoing existence!) he didn't tell anybody what had happened while he was chasing the nodes in Moriarty's network. Not even John. He was quieter and not as cheeky as before.

Slowly, his old self had recovered after that. His confidence and his arrogance were the first to return and Molly mentally braced herself to be treated like before – and forgotten – again. Surprisingly, that hadn't happened. More than once, he had slipped and cruelly deduced details and inner thoughts, but afterwards she always saw regret in his eyes when he understood that he'd hurt her. He genuinely respected her and even said 'thank you' and 'please' from time to time.

It goes without saying that she wasn't going to fall out of love with him. She had loved him unconditionally when he'd been a total git. Now that he resembled an actual human being once in a while, there was no going back. Still, the consulting detective was as oblivious as ever and left no doubt that he wasn't interested in her in that way. At all. And Molly didn't even mind that much. It hurt, of course, but she was kind of all right being a background noise in his life and being heard from time to time. Being reminded of the fact on her birthday, though, was not particularly desirable.

At least, he made it a short misery. Sherlock came in, nodded towards her and gestured to the slab next to hers quickly. On it lay a middle aged man, most likely a suicide. Sherlock looked bored and scanned the body. No real interest sparked and he was off again with a mumbled, "bye, Molly."

"Bye," she called after him a little weakly. Of course, he wouldn't know of her birthday. It would have required actively seeking that information in the first place and not deleting it subsequently. And even if he knew Molly wasn't sure if he would think it obligatory to mention it to her. So why was she disappointed? Ah right, she was an emotional sixteen-year-old mooning over him - that was why…

_.:0:._

When Molly left St. Bart's at seven pm, it was still very hot outside and she thought that there was at least one advantage of working on her birthday: She hadn't been forced to suffer the very humid heat of the day. She was happy now that she'd chosen to wear a light summer dress this morning. Normally not part of her usual wardrobe, she'd chosen it deliberately because she wanted to feel pretty on her birthday.

When the pathologist started walking home, a ridiculously clean and shiny black car pulled up beside her and she wondered briefly if she should say something because the car was blocking the drive for the ambulance cars. Before she had decided on how to proceed, however, the back door opened and the driver spoke out of the open window, "Doctor Hooper. Please take a seat, I'm to pick you up here."

Molly hesitated. John had told her about how Mycroft was always picking up people like this. It had never happened to her, though. But, could she be sure that this wasn't some criminal advancing and fooling her with that seemingly familiar approach? Everything could happen when you were associated with Sherlock Holmes. She had learned that when she was briefly kidnapped by a drug gang – nothing too serious, Sherlock had stopped them even before they could tie her up properly.

As if he knew what she was thinking the driver spoke again, addressing her worries. "Don't be afraid, Doctor Hooper," with that, he showed her a government ID card, "if you want to make sure, I can get Mr Holmes on the phone for you. He can verify that I'm here to take you to his little brother's home. Something happened and your presence is required."

Molly's eyebrows shot up and without thinking further she jumped on the backseat. "Take me there quickly, then. What is it? Is somebody hurt?" Her thoughts whirled in her head. Several scenarios played in front of her mind's eye.

"I have no information on that, I apologise." The driver did not say anything else. She wasn't sure how true his words were. His voice was neither soothing nor panic inducing.

_.:0:._

When the car stopped in front of 221B Baker Street Molly was convinced something really bad had happened. Was Sherlock hurt, or John? She had grown very attached to the gentle doctor and was sure Sherlock couldn't cope without him.

Suddenly, the driver spoke. "Just go upstairs Doctor Hooper, the front door is open."

She slowly nodded and took a deep breath before getting out of the car and approaching the door. She shuddered as she made her way up to the men's flat in the quiet house. When she saw Sherlock waiting for her at the top of the stairs, looking grave, Molly's heart skipped a beat. On the one hand, she was happy that he seemed unharmed; on the other hand his serious expression made her frown and only added to her worries.

"What's happened, Sherlock?" Her voice was a whisper.

He coughed. "Come inside, please, Molly." The dark haired man stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the flat. Overly careful, Molly took the handle and pushed the door open. She felt Sherlock following her close behind. For a fraction of a second the pathologist stared into an empty flat and was about to turn around and shoot Sherlock a questioning look when-

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Molly tumbled backwards and Sherlock had to catch her to stop her falling. She didn't breathe or move for a few seconds. Then, she started to comprehend what had happened. In front of her in the now brightly lit sitting room of 221B Baker Street were all her friends, grinning frantically and waiting for her reaction. She didn't have too many close friends but everyone that was important to her in one way or another was here. John and his girlfriend Mary, dear Mrs Hudson, Greg, her two best girlfriends with their husbands, and, of course, Sherlock. And them being here, surprising her like this, was like a plaster for her wounded pride.

She wasn't able to say anything yet but managed to stand upright on her own. With an open mouth she looked at Sherlock and gestured to the people in his sitting room with a slight shake of her head.

"Happy Birthday, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, "I see you are surprised. Pleasantly so?"

Her hands flew up to her face and covered her mouth. In an attempt to suppress a sob she pressed them hard against it. She lost against herself and broke out in tears, sobbing violently and, without thinking about what she was doing, held on to Sherlock's neck pulling him into a tight hug. He seemed surprised but reciprocated, bringing his hands up to pat her back awkwardly. "Are you all right?" he whispered, "is this not to your liking?"

"Oh, Sherlock. It is. It's very much to my liking. I just can't believe that you guys would do something so nice for me." She giggled nervously, releasing Sherlock. Finally, she turned to the group.

"Er, thank… thank you. So much. Come here." She opened her arms and one after the other got a proper cuddle. When she was done, all her tears had been rubbed off her face and she was smiling broadly.

_.:0:._

It was long after midnight and her two girlfriends were already gone, excusing themselves because their babysitters wouldn't take the kids that long. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly herself had been chatting for quite a while. She was seated comfortably on the sofa, Greg next to her. _Very close actually_, she thought. Occasionally, she stared over at where Sherlock was sitting, very quietly (_is he being considerate?) _plucking at the strings of his violin.

Suddenly, all the others laughed heartily and she joined in dutifully, sipping from her red wine. Sherlock looked over at them and their eyes met. He knew that she wasn't really a part of the conversation. And he knew why. And she knew that he knew. She blushed. He smiled wickedly. That's when Greg casually put an arm on the backrest of the sofa, somewhere behind her neck. Molly was surprised but didn't say anything. But… _did Sherlock just frown at Greg? – No, that's not possible._

A few moments later, Greg's arm hadn't moved, Sherlock abruptly stood up and went to his room without saying a word. Apart from Molly, no one thought that unusual behaviour. It was just Sherlock.

John shrugged. "I was surprised that he could bring himself to stay for this long."

Another hour passed and slowly, everyone got tired. Molly had worked the whole day and needed her bed.

"Thank you again, guys. It was so nice of you to plan all this for me," Molly said.

"Oh, sweetheart, we didn't plan all that much," Mrs Hudson replied, "I just made the appetisers. It was Sherlock's idea and he took care of everything else. Can you imagine, he even called those friends of yours, the two couples."

Molly's mouth stood open. She couldn't imagine… Sherlock had-

"Erm, if you want, Molly, I can drive you home." Greg's face was that of a self-aware boy fresh out of puberty.

"I will call a taxi for her later, thanks _Greg_." The voice came from the kitchen. Everyone turned around to see that Sherlock had come back.

"Um-?" Molly watched the consulting detective. She was confused. _Later?_

"I haven't given you my present yet!"

"Oh. Right." There wasn't really much else to say.

John, Mary and Greg stared at Sherlock. And then at Molly. Mrs Hudson apparently didn't see the weirdness as she just smiled.

"Come with me," Sherlock simply stated. While walking through the kitchen towards his bedroom he called out, "thanks for coming, everyone. You know the way out. Or upstairs, in John and Mary's case. Please try not to make so many _affectionate_ noises right away. Molly will hear and be embarrassed."

She couldn't help but follow him. She was intrigued and excited. What was happening now? Why did she have to come to his room to receive her present? Why hadn't he given it to her before now? She hadn't even dared to speculate about getting a present from Sherlock before. With a last apologetic look towards the others (she avoided looking into the disappointed eyes of Greg) she strode off as well.

Sherlock waited in his bedroom. She had never been in here before. When Molly entered, he gestured for her to sit on the bed, face impassive. She did and he sat down next to her. His proximity made her nervous.

"Molly," he started, "first of all, stop it! You do not have any reason to be that agitated. If anything, it is my turn to feel anxious. And it would help me greatly if you would relax. Could you do that for me?"

"Yes. Er… Yes, of course." The pathologist forced herself to take some steadying breaths. She was more than a little intrigued by Sherlock's words.

"Good. So, Molly. I wanted to tell you for a while that I am very grateful for what you did for me-"

"Sherlock, you don't… you already thanked me and-"

"Please. A simple thank you is not enough and we both know that. For so long, I didn't see you properly and didn't acknowledge your potential. No, potential is the wrong word. I…" Molly had never seen the detective like this. He was lost for words. He started again. "You… I never treated you with respect and always used you – for getting into the morgue, for body parts, because it felt nice being admired. And you were fully aware and still stood by my side when I needed you. I _did_ see you before. You don't know and maybe you don't believe me, but I did. I never showed it because I thought it would be a weakness letting people know that I liked them. But I never dared to look beneath the shy surface. Not until… not until I fell. And you were there to catch me. Molly, if it wasn't for you I'd be long dead. You being here is the only reason I am here. I am thankful and happy that you are, indeed, here."

Molly cocked her head. It was a bit much and she could feel tears welling up. Sherlock hadn't looked into her eyes until just now. Before he had been fiddling with his sheets and stared at a spot next to her shoulder. But now, she looked into those deep light grey eyes.

"I owe you everything. And I did nothing to deserve your loyalty. When I came back, at first I was too self-absorbed and preoccupied with processing what had happened to me, to those around me. To those I chased." Sherlock's eyes looked sad and he coughed before speaking again. "I only saw it after a while. You still think I don't…. You do stand up for yourself more often, which is good. But the way you look at me… Molly, I'm sometimes mean, but _please_ be aware and remember that I think highly - very highly - of you and that my life would be considerably worse if you were not in it."

He gulped and before she could answer, Sherlock leaned over her to grab something from his bedside table. When he gave it to her, she saw that it was a leather-bound notebook.

"Happy Birthday," he whispered.

Molly stared at the book for a while. Parts of his little speech flew through her brain. After a minute of staring, Sherlock shifted next to her. "Open it."

She did and on the first page she saw the words '_What do you need?_' in big letters. She frowned slightly and didn't understand until she started reading the paragraph that was written below the words in smaller letters.

_You said these words on the day before the fall. You didn't know then what I was going to ask of you but still your tone and posture showed no hesitation and complete trust. You were-_

Molly stopped reading and looked up at Sherlock. "What…?"

"I wrote down everything you said to me that changed my life in any way or that made me see a side of you I hadn't known about before. Underneath I listed additional observations of the circumstances, some deductions – don't worry, they are not mean, at least I hope so - and a summary of how it affected me." His voice was calm but in his eyes she could see agitation.

She started flipping through the pages.

'_You look sad when you think he can't see you'. _Underneath he had written how he'd noticed her keen eye for detail and deductions at this.

'_I'm happy you're alive'_. She remembered this sentence very well. She'd said it after she'd found him in her flat and had tended to his wounds. She'd spoken the words quietly and thoughtful. She hadn't thought that he'd even heard it.

'_Oh, this Anderson person makes me want to dry retch!'_

'_It was clearly the brother-in-law. Look at the fingernails.'_

The whole notebook was filled with more or less epic words and sentences she'd spoken. Some of them she didn't even remember. But it was proof that Sherlock listened to her and that what she said meant something to him. That _she_ meant something to him. She was far from being collected and calm by now and felt that she was beginning to lose the fight against her tears. Soon, silent teardrops were running down her cheeks as she continued to turn pages. The last one said:

'_Sometimes you're a total git, Sherlock!'_

It made her smile and caused an ugly snot-noise but she didn't care very much. Underneath Sherlock had written '_Tuesday, 10__th__ July, St. Bart's morgue. This made me realise that, sometimes, I am a total git. Thank you for keeping me grounded and making me a better person just by being you and not giving up on me._'

Molly looked up at him again. "Th-thanks Sherlock." She was putting in a lot of effort to stop her voice from shaking and making it understandable through the tears that now fell freely. And, as if it was the most normal thing on Earth, she leaned forward and rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder. His hands came up instantly and he pulled her towards him and into a real hug. He started rubbing her back and did so until she stopped crying.

When he spoke again, his voice was a little weaker than before. "You know, I really meant what I said. While it is true that I am thankful for you saving my life, it's not the only thing I wanted you to know. I have realised who you can be if you only _let_ yourself be that person. I like that Molly more than I ever thought I could like anyone. I suppose, what I want to say is…," he trailed off. Molly held his gaze and also her breath.

Sherlock didn't say anything else. Instead, he leaned towards her, his intentions clear. He was doing it slowly so that she could react, stop him if she wanted him to. She did no such thing, however. When his face was only inches from hers her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord and she waited for his lips to meet hers. When it happened she froze. He didn't retreat and brought a hand up to cup her face. Slowly, he started to move his lips against hers and the feeling in her limbs returned. His lips were warm and soft. There was so _much_ of those full lips... Molly began mirroring his movements tentatively. Suddenly, she was hyper-aware of his hand on her face, all the spots on her body that he was pressed against, the texture of his sheets as her fists grabbed them.

While the kiss was most certainly passionate, Molly felt that Sherlock was holding back. He didn't want to push her in any way. His thumb rubbed tiny circles on her cheek. She sighed contentedly and opened her mouth a bit. He understood the encouraging gesture and she felt his lips move with more pressure. After a few seconds his tongue brushed gently across her lower lip. Her stomach made several flips at that. When she greeted his tongue with hers she felt him shift on the mattress beside her and the character of the kiss changed. He was more confident now, more demanding. Quickly, their tongues were fighting for dominance. A fight Molly was sure she was going to lose, but it was still fun taking part.

Before she knew what was happening, she was lying on her back, Sherlock half-draped over her, his hand still on her face, keeping his weight off her by leaning on the other. Her right hand moved to his side and slid down his ribcage. Suddenly, she regretted _not_ feeling his weight pressing against her. Wanted him to be so much closer. Unintentionally, she pulled him down by tugging at his shirt and felt him smile against her mouth.

They broke apart to breathe and Molly whispered, "um, I think it's implied but just to make sure – I like you too. Very much so."

Sherlock's smile grew wide and when he lowered his head to catch her lips again, he murmured, "I think this sentence needs to go in the book as well."

* * *

**Post-note:** I somehow couldn't find a satisfying way to incorporate smut into the emotional bit at the end but am thinking about writing a 'sexy sequel'. Would anyone be interested?


End file.
